


Remorseful

by resonant_aura



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gilmore has many many many layers, M/M, Vax has identity issues, spoilers for Whitestone Arc, yes you know exactly who that NPC is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonant_aura/pseuds/resonant_aura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disturbed by his inner unease, Vax makes a foolish choice and has to pay the price. But what he owes--and to whom he owes it--is not what he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remorseful

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Of course, all the names and places you recognize are the intellectual property of their respective creators—Matt Mercer, Liam O’Brien, Laura Bailey, and the other members of Geek & Sundry’s fantastic webstream show Critical Role.
> 
> This was intended to be a very short character exploration to help me feel out a style for Critical Role writing, part of a set including all the members of Vox Machina—but then Gilmore happened. (I mean he Happened, Vax and I were equally surprised to see him.) This is technically an AU, set after the Whitestone Arc but before Episode 38 (i.e., that little conversation between Gilmore and Vax in the pub never happened.)

Vax gets caught.

It’s just bad luck, really—a busy street corner, the edge of a market, hundreds of people weaving through as they squint in the brilliant late morning sunshine, you’d think any number of purse snatchers could have their pick of the pockets. Most of them probably have. Just not Vax. Today luck turned her benevolent gaze elsewhere, just as a guard turned her less benevolent gaze on Vax while he palmed a hefty jewel-encrusted purse off of a blustering man rushing by.

Well. Oops.

So he makes himself as comfortable as he can, lounging in a corner of the holding cells of the district jail. Vaguely, he hopes Uriel doesn’t catch wind of this; his sister would give him hell if their reputation is smeared by his bad habits, if only because she likes the gold they’re able to collect as city heroes.

Do heroes pick pockets?

What makes a man a hero, anyway? Survival? Kindness? A predilection for daring deeds? Maybe if Scanlan writes a song about them he’ll feel like he fits the role more.

… Probably not.

“Oi, pretty face,” grunts one of his fellow inmates. The cell is, sadly, not solitary; after all the guards don’t care if the thieves get in brawls. Less for them to deal with in the aftermath. The man is shaggy, skinny, looks like an unfortunate from the lower slums. At least in the upper slums they have a better chance of eating. “You look like a sir ‘oo don’t ‘ave need for pickin’ pocks, if y’know wot I mean.”

Vax smiles. “You’re not wrong there.”

“Wot got you, then?”

“Itchy fingers, you know how it is.”

“I knows it, yeah,” says the stranger, “I knows it better’n me mam's tits, but that don’ make sense with a sir like you. Unless ‘t’weren’t gold you was itchin’ for. Maybe summat harder to find, yeah?”

Vax shifts a little against the wall, giving the man a long look. “You’re a thoughtful one yourself. Did you con your way in here?”

The man’s sly grin reveals remarkably white teeth in his mud-spattered face. “You could say that. Want to con out?”

Once, Vax thinks, the thrill of the danger would have caught his attention. Once the cheeky grin, the familiar glint, the fluttering fingers of a fitful thief would have been the friendly gestures of a fellow urchin. Now it leaves him cold and confused. “No,” he murmurs as he turns back to face the cell’s bars, “not today.”

The thiefling man cajoles him, trying to change his mind, but Vax ignores him completely until he falls into sullen silence. Vax hates silence—but it’s better than the yawning abyss that cracked open with their conversation. It’s been little more than an hour since his introduction to that ferocious guardswoman; the chances Vex has heard about his predicament are quite slim. More than likely that no one will come for him until nightfall.

At least there’s time for reflection.

Vax can’t stifle a single humorless laugh. When his cell companion tries to speak, Vax gives him a sidelong look and goes absolutely still. It’s enough to make the man blanch and scoot an inch away, still sullen but wary now too. Just as well. He ought to learn not to speak to every man who gets thrown in a cell with him. It’ll be healthier for him in the long run.

What would Keyleth think if she knew he were in here?

Oh, she’s been in enough jail cells herself. She wouldn’t think ill of him for that.

Would she?

No. Of course she would be exasperated, which would be unfair—so would his sister, which would also be unfair, given that she would have rejoiced at the gold he brought back—but she wouldn’t mistreat him. If anything she’d probably ask if he needed any medicine, did he need healing, was he all right.

Is he all right?

In studious reply to this overly astute question from his subconscious, Vax begins to trace paths in the mortar grooves of the wall.

He’s followed fifty-three separate winding, sooty paths in the stone by the time the same surly guardswoman comes stomping into the room. “Hey half-elf. Someone’s here for you.”

Vax unwinds from his position on the floor and only spares a glance for his erstwhile companion. “Best of luck,” he says, and is surprised that he means it. The thief nods, his face more solemn than it had been, and then Vax walks out of the room into the austere booking office of the jail. There’s a broad darkwood desk with a pinched-faced gnome sitting behind it, comically dwarfed by the size of the desk, and on the other side, counting out gleaming gold coins, is—

“Gilmore?” Vax asks, blinking rapidly in astonishment.

Gilmore holds up a hand, still counting. The guardswoman keeps frog-marching Vax, who stumbles to keep up. The two of them wait to one side of the desk for a moment, until Gilmore pushes the pile of coins across to the gnome, who exchanges it for a sheaf of paperwork. “Sign,” the gnome says in a bored voice, then waves at the guard. Vax breathes easier when she frees his hands and disappears into another part of the building.

“Come here, Vax,” Gilmore says, his sonorous voice firm and business-like. Vax feels his spine straighten even as his shoulders slump, and he slowly walks to Gilmore’s side feeling like a resentful, recalcitrant child. As Gilmore draws a pen from within his sleeve, he glances up at the bored gnome and says, “How the young do stray, hm?”

Vax glares at the polished, pocked wood of the desk and watches as Gilmore inscribes his flourishing signature on sheet after sheet of paper. Well. It isn’t as if he _asked_ Gilmore to come here. It’s not like he begged a favor, or made a promise. He doesn’t even know what Gilmore is _doing_ here! How dare he act so—so— _parental_ about this, when really parental is the _last_ word that would come to mind for any of—

And then he sees Gilmore slide one sheet out of the stack with his littlest finger, inching it towards Vax as inconspicuously as possible. Without thought, Vax slides it off the desk and folds it into the overlap of his leathers while Gilmore noisily makes a show of stacking and straightening the paperwork. “There you are, sir,” Gilmore announces. “Now, where are my friend’s accoutrements? I would like to be out of here quickly, if it’s all the same to you.”

With a beady stare, the gnome plunks a wooden box on the desk that clatters with knives and vials and other metal accessories banging together. Vax scoops his belongings out of the box and turns on his heel, exiting with such single-mindedness that no one else in the building tries to stop him. The jail, attached to a taller and slightly more impressive building which is presumably a local hearing court, has only one guard at its door; Vax ignores him and steps off into the shadows between the jail and the court, where he begins painstakingly donning and adjusting his belts and gear.

He steadfastly doesn’t look up when he hears the closing and opening of the door, the charming greeting given to the guard, the approach of footsteps. “I’ll have you know the fine for pickpocketing in Abadar’s Promenade is four hundred and twenty gold, Vax’ildan.”

“An amount which I will happily repay you, Gilmore.” Vax pays very close attention to the fastening of his serpent belt and tries not to pay attention to the sudden hammering of his heart.

“I believe that belt’s already secured, my dear.”

“Yes. Rather. My mistake.” Well, this is a little ridiculous. Vax blows out a steadying breath and leans back against the shaded wall of the jail, holding all of his daggers in hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you from the mores of city life, it would seem.”

“Yes, but what are you doing _here_?”

Vax forces his eyes up, irritated and trying to smother it, and is surprised to see Gilmore wearing a deeply rueful half-smile. The wizard’s smile immediately warms and rounds, and he looks away to adjust his billowing sleeves. “I was browsing the market this morning for raw materials—I’m working on a new spell, you see, an experiment for a client—and very unexpectedly there was a small commotion when Ryker Allard learned his purse had just been lifted.”

“Ryker Allard?”

“Yes, that portly gentleman in the hideous gold cape whose tawdry money bag you happened to steal.”

“Ah.”

“It’s a shame he listens to his wife when it comes to fashion—neither of the poor things really have any taste, but Ryker has a smidge more than she. Not that it shows.” Gilmore pauses, watching Vax carefully, then says, “I was really quite surprised to see a familiar face at that scene.” Another pause. “Did something happen?”

Vax shrugs. “I was careless.”

“Yes, you were.” Gilmore’s long, piercing looks are beginning to chafe a little. Vax juggles his daggers in his hands for a moment, then stows them all behind his belts. He’ll return them to where they belong when no one is looking.

“All right,” he sighs, lifting his hood over his hair and already striding off in the direction of an alley of pubs, “come on then. I owe you four hundred and twenty; shall we start with a drink?”

“I think not,” Gilmore replies dryly, and Vax stops, looks over his shoulder.

“Why not?”

“I know better than to barter with a desperate man. You, Vax’ildan, positively reek of desperation. To be honest, it’s appalling. No, I won’t be seen drinking in the middle of the afternoon with a council member who’s just been caught stealing from a guild merchant, a hero of the city who languished in a common prison for a few hours. For no reason.” Gilmore’s stare turns hard, harder than Vax has ever seen, and it actually makes a shiver run down his spine. “Your debt to me is more than four hundred gold, Vax. See me tonight. We can discuss your payment then.” And without another word, without even a farewell, Gilmore turns and disappears around the corner. Vax stands in place, frozen, and then scrambles after the merchant—but he’s gone, washed away in the sea of colorful citizens that have come out to enjoy the sunshine of Emon.

Vax walks a little ways down the street, putting some distance between himself and the jail, and then reaches into his leathers to retrieve the paper Gilmore had given him. It’s crumpled now, and Gilmore’s signature, wet when Vax had stashed the paper away, has become almost illegibly smeared, but the blocky print of the form is still impressively readable:

**This being the only acknowledged copy approved by the State of Emon and his Majesty the Sovereign Uriel Tal’Dorei for the official and lawful records of Abadar’s Promenade, to be relinquished to the Royal Council upon need or request, of the arrest of one Vax’ildan of the adventuring party Vox Machina, member of the Sovereign’s Council, co-habitant of Greyskull Keep, and resident of Emon, for the pickpocketing and assault of one Ryker Allard, merchant of the Stonecraft’s Guild, on this day Desnus 14, TR 372, the punishment being imprisonment until payment of fine.**

**Payment rendered by**

That glorious bastard.

And what the hell did he mean, reeking of desperation? Vax has known desperation many times before, and he is certain he doesn’t feel it now. He is certain. He is.

It will have to wait until nightfall, then.

Silently, Vax melts into the early afternoon shadows and makes his way back to Greyskull Keep.

* * *

“Where have you _been_?” Vex demands as soon as he’s set foot inside the wall. “Grog took Trinket out for what he _said_ was a training session, but they were _brawling_ again, and I can’t ever get them to see sense but Pike has been in the cathedral and I can’t—”

“Not now, please,” he mutters, stalking towards the entrance. He sees ghosts in this courtyard now.

“What? Hey! What are—”

The heavy front doors close behind him, and Vax makes a beeline for his room, locks the door, and collapses against it. There’s only a moment’s quiet before the wood vibrates under his shoulder blades and he hears his sister yelling over her angry knocking. “Brother! What happened? Something’s pissed you off, what was it?”

“I said _not now_.”

The knocking stops. A beat later, in a tiny voice, he hears Vex say, “Vax? Are you all right?”

“When I find out,” he replies quietly, “I’ll let you know.”

The silence grows heavy and sluggish, and then, muffled, Vex says, “I’ll come back to check on you later, yeah?” Her footsteps recede down the hallway and fade away. Vax waits for a moment, then two, and finally slides to the floor.

It was just bad luck, this morning. Just bad luck. It happens to every thief, sooner or later. Happens to him, even. Has happened before.

It was just good luck that Gilmore happened to see it and happened to—care—that Vax had possibly made a misstep.

So why did it feel like… a trap?

Vax grinds the heels of hands into his eyes and blinks, blearily taking in the details of his room. There aren’t many; the bed is simply but finely built, the sheets are folded in clinical corners thanks to their blessed Laina, and the grate of the fireplace is clean and cold. There are no rugs, no hangings except for a generic landscape over the bed, no curtains at the window, no clothes in messy piles on the floor or inkpots mindlessly left out to dry on the desk. Everything looks bare and… unlived in. Vax rises and drifts over to the full-length mirror—something of an exorbitant prank gift from Scanlan, when he discovered the twins’ birthday. (He’d bought Vex a saddle for Trinket.)

He’s almost never looked in the damn thing before, and looking at it now is very strange. He’s always assumed that looking at Vex is the same as seeing himself; gods know everyone else gets them mixed up enough. But looking in the mirror his features seem off. Harsher. More angular. His cheekbones aren’t as soft as hers, his brows not as arched, and his nose doesn’t have the same gentle button at the end. His eyes are more slanted than hers—more elven, he realizes, and immediately is disgusted.

They’re little differences, but it’s enough to make him realize: when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t know the man he sees.

As if in a dream, he removes the knives, the cloak, the belts, the satchels, the boots, the leathers, the tunic—all but the gloves, with their earnestly and slightly clumsily stitched symbols of Sarenrae reflected in the glass.

They’re the truest thing in that mirror.

Vax looks at the long limbs, the blunt fingertips, the pale skin that he’s always resented, the inky hair and the sunken, slanted eyes. There’s a bruise over one hip that he’d almost forgotten about, fading into the greenish-yellow of spring flowers. He doesn’t know what to make of any of it.

This is his home, now, but for years, he and Vex hadn’t really needed or wanted a home. Home was where they wanted to be at the time, that was all. And now he has a home… and sometimes, he doesn’t want to be in it.

Vax looks up and meets his own eyes in the mirror, and is shocked to find exactly what Gilmore had seen. It’s alarming to say the least—and horrifying to say the worst. Gilmore was a mark, once, and no mark should ever know his hunter better than the hunter knows himself.

But that isn’t what the truth is anymore.

Things used to be so simple, once.

“You’re getting old,” he says to his reflection, and laughs a little.

_“How the young do stray, hm?”_

With quick, jerking motions, Vax’ildan dresses and arms himself, and then steals out of the window into the day.

***

Gilmore’s Glorious Goods is indeed turning a fine profit these days—it’s a comfort to know that Vax hasn’t sunk the business with his lack of advertising, but then that would probably be a discredit to Gilmore’s business sense in the first place. Gilmore doesn’t need Vox Machina to draw in customers; he didn’t need the S.H.I.T.S. for that either, but Vax had once been certain and remains confident that Gilmore does need something from them. Someday he’ll find out what.

Probably not today, though. It doesn’t look like luck is on his side today.

Vax watches from a small café down the street as patrons come in and out of the fantastically painted and draped edifice of the shop; he’s amused to see more than one young maid enter eagerly and emerge quickly with disappointment writ on her face. Love potions. Would there ever be a time when they weren’t sought?

For a moment, Keyleth’s face, eyes crinkled in laughter, appears before his mind’s eye before he brushes it away. She has nothing to do with this. Whatever this is.

To be perfectly honest, there’s a significant part of him that is relieved by that. It’s difficult to be around her now, sometimes, and Gilmore… Gilmore has never been difficult company.

The light grows long and gold, almost corporeal, as the sun sets beyond the towers and spires of the castle and its walls. The shadows are red, then purple, then blue by the time he sees the first lamp lit outside of another eatery down the street. He rises from his chair, drops a few coins on the table, and sidles across the way to Gilmore’s shop, where the lights are low. He enters the shop as quietly as possible, avoiding all the glass beads, and sees no one around. The heavily perfumed air is still; the room is only lit with the mystical, winking reflections of a hundred glass and metal surfaces, the eyes of a dozen gems. He should call out—but it’s more fun not to.

Vax sneaks up behind the counter to the curtain of bright beads that separates the living quarters from the shop floor and peeks through, soundlessly lifting the beads away.

The room is dark; no one is there.

Well, that’s strange.

Vax backs away, carefully dropping the beads into place, and looks around. He’s rather at a loss. Of course Gilmore could have meant for them to meet elsewhere, and Vax would be able to make an educated guess at what sorts of places he might frequent, but Gilmore would never make someone go through such trouble to complete a transaction. It was bad business.

Better start looking, then.

Vax stalks through the room towards the exit when something catches his eye—a flicker of light that is not a reflection, but the shadows cast by a fire. He pauses and turns to investigate, and finds a heavily draped corner of the store, shadowed and misshapen by several layered bolts of thick, midnight blue velvet. Vax paws through the layers and finds himself tumbling through them, stumbling from luxurious darkness into open air and the warmth of a brightly lit kitchen.

“About time,” Gilmore drawls from where he sits at a small table, peeling potatoes. “You’ve been in that shop for eight minutes—you’re not breaking any records today, are you?”

“Apparently not,” Vax replies, shaking off a slight feeling of dizziness. He looks behind him and sees a single velvet curtain, not at all the mass of cloth he’d just fought his way through. “Where are we?”

“A little vacation home on the edge of nowhere.” Gilmore smiles down into the bowl. “It wouldn’t do to have a fire so near my goods, and I certainly can’t afford to eat out every night. So I’ve put some barriers into place.” He glances up, his hands still for a moment, then gestures to a thickly upholstered armchair near the cheerfully lit fireplace. “Have a seat. I was going to cook, if you don’t mind.”

“No. I mean yes—of course,” Vax dazedly stutters, making his way to the armchair. He halfway expects it to be made of clouds, or dissolve when he touches it, but it’s simple plush cloth and wool stuffing. Gingerly dragging his hand against the nap of the cloth he says, “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Of course I can. How else does one survive?”

“Thought you had a housekeeper.”

Gilmore chuckles deep in his chest. “I have my extravagances for which I make allowances. Sadly, a housekeeper is not one I can afford.”

Vax smiles. “Seemed like the shop was doing well today.”

“Oh, were you watching? It was quite busy. At this rate I may need to hire another assistant.” With a wave of his hand, the bowl of potatoes floats to the round-bottomed cauldron over the fire and upends itself, dumping its contents into a boiling broth. Gilmore glances over at Vax and lifts one brow with a shameless grin. “Perhaps a young man, this time.”

“Are you trying to lure innocent youths to your naughty ways, Gilmore?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Gilmore rises, absently waving his hand over his robes to dispel the remnants of the potato peels, and drifts over to a cupboard containing several glass jars labeled in a bold, scrawling hand. “I prefer them already naughty.”

For the first time in what must have been weeks—certainly longer than he expects—Vax feels a hearty laugh bubble out of his chest and go on and on, his cheeks aching with the intensity of his grin. His sides are pinched and his face hot with blood by the time he whoops in a breath, trying to calm himself, and tips his head back against the chair. Gilmore is watching him, a small, very warm smile curling his lips. “Thank you, I think,” Vax gasps, still a little breathless. “I… haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

“How long?”

“I’m not sure.” The whisper of ghosts suddenly crawls through his skin, draining him of laughter and leaving him cold despite the fire. “I’m really not sure.”

“I would guess you haven’t laughed like that often, if at all.” Gilmore turns back to the cupboard and begins opening and sifting through the jars, collecting dusts and leaves in the palm of one hand. “And how is Vex’ahlia doing? I haven’t seen her in some time, not since I began working in Westruun.”

“She’s fine.” She is fine. She’s fine, they’re all fine, even if Vex is the only one he _should_ care about, and she is but she isn’t and he’s feeling the trap close on him again—

Sickened by the small talk and feeling hounded, Vax pushes himself out of the armchair and strides over to the table. He restlessly smooths the surface of it with his hands (inlaid with mother-of-pearl, of course; not even the humblest things remain humble around this man.) “Gilmore, you summoned me here to discuss a debt.” He withdraws the prison’s record from his sleeve. “I read this. You were right; I owe you more than four hundred. With this it doesn’t matter how many signatures that jailer has from you—it’s as if Vax’ildan was never arrested.”

Gilmore is still calmly sorting through his jars. “That’s true.”

“And what? The district just gets a friendly donation from you? We hope nobody out on the street this morning saw my face? There’s a lot that can be done with magic, Gilmore, but you can’t just make this disappear.”

Without looking up, Gilmore asks, “If you were concerned about consequences, why did you take that purse in the first place?”

Vax opens his mouth; his voice croaks in his throat, breaks, and falls silent.

Gilmore smoothly crosses to the fireplace to shake his handful of spices into the cauldron. “We are not close friends, Vax’ildan. We are not allies. I have not fought beside you or slept beside you or hunted beside you as your companions in Vox Machina have.” Vax flinches a little. “We are, in fact, business partners and nothing more. But you have come to me on more than one occasion for a friendly ear and a friendly word, and I believe I could safely come to you with the same request. We have a level of trust between us, do we not?”

Vax swallows hard and nods. “We do.”

“I know your deeds well enough. You’ve told me of some of your struggles. I know what you did today was not only careless—it was reckless, and it was intentional, and it could have put many people at risk. You are right. I can’t make it disappear. Neither can you. And you knew that.” Gilmore turns and slowly advances on Vax, who feels each muscle coiling tighter and tighter in the anticipation to run or draw steel. “I would like to know what you were thinking.”

Vax looks up, his heart in his throat, and the words that he whispers are nowhere near what he intended to say: “Why do you care?”

To his credit, Gilmore doesn’t look wounded or angry; merely sad. “Perhaps I feel that while you’re protecting us from the monsters… somebody needs to protect us from you.”

At that, Vax feels everything go limp. He slumps into Gilmore’s abandoned chair, gazing sightlessly into the fire. “Well. That’s probably true.”

Under Gilmore’s steady eyes, Vax feels a tumble of words choking him, roiling in his stomach. He thinks of Grog, and Pike, and Percy. He thinks of Vex.

He thinks of Keyleth, and the Sun Tree, and everything that wasn’t being said.

“… In Whitestone,” he whispers. “We went to—to do a lot of things. Give Percy vengeance. Free his people. Kill the Briarwoods.” He sighs. “Clear our name. When we got there… there was this—magnificent tree, this old, old thing, something older than time. The tree was dead. The ground was dead. And in the tree—they’d hung bodies. People from the town, they’d just—murdered them and painted their bodies and dressed them. To look like us.” Vax swallows down bile, swallows again, and has to clear his throat to speak. “Scanlan and Pike, too. But there are no gnomes in Whitestone. They killed the children.” Vax takes in a shuddering breath, and it doesn’t even register that the world is prismatic, not because of magic, but because of his tears. “They killed children who didn’t even know our names, because they wanted to leave a message for us. And then we killed the Briarwoods’ people. I killed a man—just because he knew about what happened, in the tree. I didn’t even let him finish speaking.”

Quietly, his voice hollow, Gilmore says, “Do you regret it?”

“Regret it? Gods, no, I don’t. Those people were evil. Good riddance to them.”

“Then where does the pain come from, Vax?”

Vax’s face crumples. Ashamed, he covers his face with his hands, physically forces the bunched muscles to relax, and looks up with a quiet face stained by tears. “Something has brought us together—Vox Machina. Something has, and I don’t know what it is or how to stop it. If I should stop it. My sister and I have done good and done bad. That was for ourselves, for us. Now I’ve seen Percy do terrible things, I’ve seen Pike do wondrous things, I’ve seen Grog rip out people’s tongues and I’ve seen Keyleth—” his voice breaks, but he keeps going— “I’ve seen her heal the oldest, holiest tree. We’re all together now, though. We’re—responsible, together, and I don’t know where we’re going. It might be somewhere evil. I don’t know if I want to continue on the path I’ve found.”

“You’re losing yourself.”

Vax’s head rocks back and his eyes narrow in a searing glare, but before he can speak or move or even breathe Gilmore is pinning him to the chair, his fingers hard as they push down into his shoulders. “That’s what you’re afraid of,” says Gilmore gently in a tone utterly incongruous with the strength of his arms, eerily calm. “That Vax’ildan the man is consumed by these bonds you’ve forged. A bond with Vox Machina, a bond with Emon, a bond with your sister, a bond with the children in Whitestone, a bond with the men you’ve killed. That’s what it is.”

“I’m not—”

“Desperate men and desperate acts, Vax,” Gilmore chides, even more gently. Vax hisses in pain as Gilmore’s fingers dig into the hollow of his collarbone. “And the market today—that was, what? A retaliation? A regret?”

“I don’t know!”

“You do.”

Vax shudders in the chair, twisting his shoulders sharply. His teeth clench as he glares into Gilmore’s calm, intent face. “Let. Go.”

As if breaking out of a fever, the focused glint in Gilmore’s eyes suddenly sparks out, and he lets out a tiny gasp as he releases Vax’s shoulders. He leans back against the edge of the table while Vax sits rigidly in the chair. Gilmore rubs a hand over his face wearily, then releases a weak chuckle. “I appreciate that one of your knives hasn’t found its way into my heart, yet.”

“You said trust,” Vax replies hoarsely. “You weren’t wrong.”

Gilmore nods and hums, but it sounds speculative, introspective. The wizard finally straightens and looks over to the boiling pot of stew over the fire, and he returns to the hearth, summoning two bowls from another cupboard. “Are you hungry?”

Vax massages his jaw. It feels like stone. “I could eat.”

Gilmore ladles stew into both bowls, sets one on the table before Vax and then withdraws to the armchair. Woodenly Vax reaches forward and begins spooning stew into his mouth. Surprisingly—or perhaps not, as it is Gilmore’s stew—the food is warm and rich and bursting with spice and flavor. Vax doesn’t think even Laina has made anything this good. He eats with enthusiasm, and is somewhat relieved to find the tension dissipating with the steam from the stew, replaced with an almost chagrined quiet and a sense of camaraderie.

“Thank you,” he says softly to Gilmore’s silhouette. Shadows play over the other man’s cheeks, red highlights flickering through the braid at his chin.

“A good stew can improve almost anyone’s mood. My mother taught me that.”

Vax straightens in surprise. “Your mother?”

But Gilmore is quiet as he continues eating. Eventually he places the bowl on the hearth with a sigh, then says, “I owe you an apology, Vax’ildan. You… stirred a forgotten memory. I promise you I only have the best of intentions for your well-being—even if I do get carried away with them.”

Vax considers the man for a second, his slumped posture, his solemn expression, then rises and perches on the arm of Gilmore’s chair. Impulses usually serve him well; he’ll see where this one leads. “Do you believe in fate, Gilmore?”

Gilmore laughs softly. “I believe the sentient mind will always seek a pattern, and if the events we experience seem to indicate a pattern, we will find it. Why?”

“If Vox Machina’s fate—my fate—is real… is there any chance to stop it?” Vax stares into the fire. “We’ve become bigger than our shadows now, is what my mother would say. You’ve become bigger than your shadow. But it’s still a long shadow we cast.”

“Mm. The children.”

“And the purse.” Vax looks down at the crown of Gilmore’s head, the curve of his ear peeking through the silky dark hair, and finds himself oddly compelled to touch. To reach out and connect, to stroke. “Maybe I did it to make my own consequences. Pick a direction.”

“The consequences will find you, Vax. They always do.” Gilmore stirs and gives him half a grin. “Especially you.”

This man and his charm. Vax smirks back and says, “I don’t regret taking that purse either. Although I’m sorry I didn’t get to keep it.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“Yeah,” Vax says softly. “I am. And I’ve been thinking I shouldn’t be. There are—things don’t always turn out well for someone who’s an inveterate rogue.”

Or at least, someone who used to be an inveterate rogue. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t know the kind of man he’s looking at. And always there, lurking, is the thought that the reason she said no was _he isn’t good enough_.

“Consequences will find you no matter what you do. Whether you change or not. Whether you expect them or not. It is the nature of our existence, our forward momentum. But…” Gilmore trails off, eyes hooded, and his hand rises to settle on Vax’s knee. “For my part… I would deeply prefer it if you didn’t change at all. Incorrigible though you are.”

_I would deeply prefer it if you didn’t change at all._

The words echo in his ear, reverberate down his spine, and settle in a deep, dark pool, in the place one might think of were they looking for a soul.

At night, when he goes to sleep, Vax has to imagine goodness. When he was younger he would think of dancing—dancing with strangers who were always happy to see him and sad to leave him. Sometimes it was a fantasy: slaying the dragon and finding his mother alive, becoming king and queen with his sister. These days, more and more often his time lying in the darkness is filled with faces. The faces with whom he shares a home; the faces with whom he shares a memory. He thinks of these faces, these fancies, to stave off the real thoughts that lurk in his mind: the sorrows.

If he doesn’t defend himself from them, he remembers every regret, imagines every lost opportunity, fails every task set before him. He sees Emon burn. He watches Vex die on his own blade. He hears countless wounded hearts, mourning mothers, grieving daughters, vengeful sons, weeping and demanding anything to ease the pain. He languishes in a prison in the middle of nowhere, unnoticed and unloved. It’s what makes him a good person, Vex says. Evil people don’t have nightmares. And yet—he has to wonder. Without doubt, without regret, he knows the Briarwoods were evil; the spirits haunting Uriel were evil. The darkness that possessed K’varn was evil. He’s _seen_ evil and he destroyed it to the best of his ability.

But does that truly make him good?

Did he want to be good?

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, and reaches out to gently stroke Gilmore’s hair, “that I couldn’t save my mother, or those children. I’m sorry for all the times I’ve frightened my sister or left her alone. I’m sorry for Uriel, thinking he’s let down his people. I’m sorry—I’m sorry I can’t be confident, or ready, to lead these people. I’m sorry I don’t enjoy all the responsibilities of being a council member, or a hero, or whatever it is people think I am, because if I did and I wanted it things would be much easier.”

_I’m sorry for Keyleth. I’m sorry for you._

Vax takes a breath and looks down at Gilmore’s upturned face. His eyes are half-closed, the firelight still flickering through his dark hair the only movement in his expression, but he is listening. Slowly, carefully, Vax leans down and presses his forehead to Gilmore’s. “But I’m not sorry for being a liar or a thief. I’m not sorry for putting my sister first. I’m not sorry for fighting with Grog, because the man’s a boor. I’m not sorry for hating my father. I’m not sorry for all the times I nearly died, because when I did that, all the others lived. I’m not sorry people die, because they do, and it’s sad but there is no other way. I’m not sorry for not wanting to be a hero. And I’m not sorry for stealing that purse.”

Being this close to Gilmore, Vax can hear the almost imperceptibly ragged breath Gilmore draws in past his ear. “I think,” says Gilmore, and Vax has never heard him so close to a whisper before, this boisterous man full of color and vigor, “I think if this is what comes of stealing a purse I may need to encourage your madness further.”

Vax huffs a laugh and turns his head to press a brief kiss to Gilmore’s temple. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Vex is the only one I ever speak to like this, but—she didn’t understand.”

“I am always happy to offer my services to my favorite customer,” Gilmore drawls, eyes closed. Vax hovers close, a teasing, playful dimple just shadowing his cheek. He just barely tickles the goatee at Gilmore’s chin.

“Are you sure we’re only business partners, Gilmore? This is quite the intimate setting. Your own home, your own hearth—”

“Vax.”

“—you cooked for me—“

“ _Vax_.”

“—you held me down in a chair—”

“Vax’ildan!”

Vax backs off a little, mouth trembling with suppressed laughter. Gilmore’s eyes open, and Vax is taken aback by how very dark and very intense they’ve become. “Consequences, Vax,” Gilmore says in a very low, very slow tone. “Do keep them in mind the next time your fingers wander.”

Vax’s mouth goes dry. “I’ll try.”

Gilmore stares at him for a moment longer, then smirks. “See that you do.”

Feeling rightly chastised—or encouraged?—Vax keeps his hands to himself and leans back. “I believe I still owe you a debt, Gilmore. For your help today.” His voice softens. “For _all_ your help.”

“Yes… I should say debts are only matters for business partners, wouldn’t you agree?” Gilmore rises from the chair, straightens his robes, and leans forward to peer into the still simmering pot. “There’s more stew, if you want it.”

Vax’s smile is slow and languid. “Gilmore… Are you inviting me to stay the night?”

“I am inviting you, Vax’ildan,” Gilmore says, magically summoning Vax’s bowl from the table, “to partake of what small pleasures we mortals are gifted before we are gone.”

“Well then, my friend.” Vax slides down into the chair and kicks off his boots. “I shall partake.”


End file.
